The Hours of Prayer

1. Lauds

A nightmare wakes me — repeated theme — I can’t get to Barajas, the Madrid airport — I will miss my plane — but the subtext is “go to the damn bathroom” — so I throw back the percale sheet, roll to the right, and plant my slightly wobbly, 4:32AM, feet on our red oak floor — take a right at the hall — and enter the yellow bathroom — eight seconds later I am lifting the wooden toilet seat and peeing.

2. Prime

Awake for an hour — sleep escaped for the night — again, I roll to my right, stand up, grab shorts, tee-shirt, flip-flops, my current novel — historical fiction about the Marranos, the crypto-Jews of 15th century Spain — walk to the living room and turn on both the floor and table lamps. It is early September and sunrise is two hours distant.

3. Terce

I sit on the couch while the sun shovels a seemingly inexhaustible supply of light into our living room — thirty pages read — email checked — happy birthday greetings sent to twelve Facebook friends, even checked my Insta. My coffee cup snuggles the lamp on our mahogany side table — empty after three fillings.

4. Sext

Nothing for lunch — not penance — but easier to lose the extra ten pounds this way — hunger chased away by a four-mile jog — mid-day is hot, already in the 90’s — sweat rolls down me like a missed fast ball on a steep street.

5. None